


Ink on Skin (Doesn't Really Matter)

by beggarscantbchoosers



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Not everyone has a Name on them, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, What Is Historical Accuracy, Zo can't read and Zo can't write but he can drive a tractor, but most people do, he can't read or write very well though, no he can't that's not true tractors don't exist yet, seriously why do I like beating Zo up so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3858535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beggarscantbchoosers/pseuds/beggarscantbchoosers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When Tommaso Masini was four and a half, ‘Leonardo da Vinci’ scrawled itself over his heart, in careful, practiced letters."</p><p>Soulmate markings AU. Zo has two Names. Leo and Nico only have one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink on Skin (Doesn't Really Matter)

When Tommaso Masini was four and a half, _‘Leonardo da Vinci’_ scrawled itself over his heart, in careful, practiced letters. Tommaso ran to his mother, who stared helplessly and sent him to his uncle, who shrugged, and took his nephew to the rabbi, who read the Name aloud and looked almost pityingly down at Tommaso, patting the boy on the head and murmuring something that could have been a blessing… Or a condolence, and offered to teach Tommaso his letters. Then, of course, Tommaso’s mother died, and his uncle struggled to support them both, and Tommaso had to give up his lessons with the rabbi in order to spend more time on the streets, pick-pocketing, running errands and doing everything he could to help his uncle put food on the table. He didn’t have time for a Name.

 

Then, of course, came the alley. Nine year old Tommaso – now Zoroaster – curled up in a tight ball, trying to protect his head and stomach, whilst four older boys laughed cruelly, kicking and spitting at him, until they were chased off by none other than Zoroaster’s Name.

“Leonardo da Vinci.” The boy, a slip of a thing even by the half-starved Zoroaster’s standards, held out his hand with a grin, and Zoroaster knew that even if this boy’s name hadn’t been carved into the very heart of him, he would have loved him just the same.

“Zoroaster.” He told his Name, eager for the flicker of recognition that surely he would see in Leonardo’s eyes upon hearing it… But there was nothing.

“Nice to meet you, Zoroaster.” The younger boy said, then wrinkled his nose. “Bit of a mouthful, can I call you Zo?”

“Only if I can call you Leo.” The newly dubbed Zo shot back, quick as thinking, face painted with a roguish grin even as, internally, he wept. Leo grinned, and helped him back to his uncle’s house, and before Zo had time to prepare himself, the younger boy was staring, mouth open in shock and damp, bloodstained rag forgotten in his hand, at his own name engraved over Zoroaster’s heart.

“Oh.” Leo said, in a small voice, and Zo’s uncle muttered something about going for clean water and left his nephew to stare at his Name, taking in the boy’s crestfallen expression. “But I…” The rag fell out of his hand, and he pressed his trembling fingers to the curve of the L, sharp hot points of contact that made something in Zo sing even as his stomach dropped, and he realised that this was not the reaction of someone who had Zoroaster’s name carved somewhere on his skin. His fears were confirmed as Leo looked up at him, hazel eyes welling with tears and a catch in his voice. “I’m Blank.” He said, and Zo was suddenly, painfully reminded that his Name was only seven ( _nearly_ eight!), as brilliant as he was, and though Zo himself was not even fifteen months older, he had lived far more than Leo, was more mature in mind than the teary child before him, and so he caught Leo’s shaking hand in his own and forced a bright smile.

“Don’t worry about it.” He reassured his Name, ignoring his injuries in order to hug the boy lightly. “I’ll look after you anyway. Name or not, Leo, I will always be there for you, even if…” He trailed off, swallowed, and forced himself to continue. “Even if you get someone else’s Name someday.” He knew it was possible – there were dozens of stories of unrequited Names, and he pretended for a moment that he didn’t know of the agony those who were Unrequited supposedly faced.

“You too.” Leo swore, and dug in his pocket with his free hand, drawing out a stump of charcoal and drawing a rough ‘Z’ on his own arm. “See? Now you’re there.” He said, insistently. “Always, Zo, I promise.” He reached out and laid his free palm back over Zo’s heart, smearing charcoal fingerprints against his skin, and Zo just smiled, helplessly.

 

They were inseparable after that, Leo seeking Zo out whenever he could get away from his father’s enforced lessons, Zo giving the younger boy a few lessons of his own, teaching him how to pick pockets, how to dart through crowds without getting stuck, how to blend into the background and not be noticed; skills Zo had picked up in his years on the street. In return, Leo taught him constellations, some history, physics – whatever caught his fancy at the time. It was during one of these lessons – maths, supposedly, though Zo had stopped paying attention a while back, too distracted by the way Leo’s hands moved when he was caught up in explaining something, and he rather thought Leo might have changed the topic anyway – that a sharp stinging above his heart, where Leo’s name was, drew Zo out of his haze and caused him to frown, rubbing at his chest.

“Is something the matter?” Leo asked, concern for Zo touching his features even as he idly massaged one wrist. Zo caught the movement and, worse, saw thick, dark letters carving their way into his Name’s arm. N. I. C. C. O…

“Niccolò Machiavelli.” He read aloud, the handwriting careful, practiced, but wobbly, the lettering of a child still learning to write, as Leo’s had been once. It would change, as Niccolò, whoever he was, aged, always matching his handwriting.

“That’s an impressive trick.” Leo said, voice wavering, and Zo dragged his attention away from Leo’s Name to find his friend staring, almost distraught, at Zo’s own chest. “You didn’t even look.”

“Look at what?” Zo asked, perhaps a touch sharply, but for all his assurances that he would always be there for Leo, he hadn’t truly anticipated how it would feel seeing the boy who owned his heart get a Name that wasn’t Zoroaster’s. Leo’s eyes snapped up to Zo’s, and Zo instantly felt bad for using such a tone; his friend was clearly distressed, and- Leo reached out, and traced his fingers along Zo’s chest; he frequently did so, tracing the lines of his name, some delighted wonder in his eyes… But this was different. His mouth was a tight line, his eyes damp, and Zo frowned and looked down, wondering if Leo etching meant that his name had faded from Zo’s skin. But… ‘ _Leonardo da Vinci’_ , it read, in Leo’s characteristic chicken scratch, and just below it: _‘Niccolò Machiavelli’_ , an exact copy of the name on Leo’s wrist, albeit upside down from Zo’s current point of view.

“I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.” Leo said, attempting to sound cheerful, but his voice was wavering even if, at ten, he believed himself too old to cry. Zo rolled his eyes, and took Leo’s hand in his own, stretching out his arm.

“Look, idiot.” He said, and Leo’s eyes fixed on the writing on his own arm, and his eyes went wide. “If anything,” Zo said, aiming for jovial and missing by a mile, if Leo’s frown was anything to go by. “this means that you’re definitely stuck with me.” He joked, refusing to put voice to his darkest fears, and he ducked his head to press a kiss to the dark writing on Leo’s arm. When he straightened up again, Leo was blushing, and Zo grinned at him.

“You do realise that Niccolò, wherever he is, is probably only around five?” Leo asked, idly tracing the two Names on Zo’s chest again. Zo let him – his fingers were, after all, still wrapped around Leo’s wrist, where the younger boy had all but forced him to carefully ink his name – _Zoroaster_ – just above Niccolò’s, the handwriting nearly as bad. It wasn’t a real Name, of course, that wasn’t how they worked, but… It felt nice, none the less, to see it there.

“Eh, I already put up with you on a daily basis, what’s one more little kid?” Zo joked, and he succeeded in lightening the mood; Leo laughed and hit him.

 

***

 

“Niccolò Machiavelli.” Leo pronounced, flopping down on the bench next to Zo, who slung an arm around his Name’s shoulders without even thinking about it. Leo leant in and pressed a kiss to Zo’s cheek; the older boy flushed slightly, but grinned.

“Yeah? You found something?” Zo asked, offering Leo a bread roll; the younger boy took it and tore it apart, shoving the smaller half in his mouth and passing the other back to Zo, who shrugged and ate it.

“Eldest son of Bernardo Machiavelli, attorney. Smart kid, perfectly well behaved, far too good for the likes of us.” Leo teased, and Zo laughed and ruffled the younger teenager’s hair. “Doesn’t get out much, dad’s apparently a bit on the over-protective side.”

“Let me guess, he’s kept locked away because his parents took one look at his Name and went ‘no way are we letting our little boy near that da Vinci kid, he’s nuts!’?” Zo teased, and Leo stuck his tongue out at him.

“At least I’m pretty.” He said, sticking his nose in the air, and Zo grinned and ruffled his hair again.

“You said I was _breathtakingly gorgeous_ yesterday.” Zo pointed out, and Leo’s face went soft before he leant in and pressed a chaste kiss to Zo’s mouth.

“I did, didn’t I?” Leo agreed, whilst Zo was stunned into silence. They were thirteen ( _nearly_ fourteen, Zo!) and fifteen, respectively, six years into their friendship and three into searching for their third, and whilst they were affectionate they had never actually _kissed_ before. Not like that. “Have I broken you?” Leo asked, curiously, attempting to keep his tone light but genuine concern seeping in nonetheless.

“You don’t think we should wait until we find Niccolò?” He asked, a little shyly.

“I have _found_ Niccolò.” Leo huffed, folding his arms. “I even know where he _lives_. But he’s eight, Zo, and I refuse to wait until he’s of age to kiss you, it’ll be over a decade! You’re my Name too, damnit!” He sulked, and Zo hesitated before speaking up.

“No I’m not.” He said, reaching up to touch his heart, where Leo’s name looped fluidly across his skin, Niccolò’s just below it. “It’s Unrequited, Leo, no matter how much we pretend. Niccolò’s your Name, and you’re almost certainly his.”

“You don’t think Niccolò has your name.” Leo said, eyes widening as realisation dawned. Zo fidgeted in place, his cheeks flushing slightly.

“It just makes sense.” He muttered, staring at the table in front of him instead of meeting Leo’s eye. “You have his name, and he’ll have yours…”

“And you’ll be ours regardless.” Leo swore, determination straightening his spine and clenching his hands into fists. “It doesn’t _matter_ , Zo, don’t you realise? I love you as my Name even if I don’t wear it, and Niccolò will too, I’m sure of it. Just because your name isn’t on my skin doesn’t mean it’s not engraved into my _heart_ , you idiot.” He huffed out his frustration, and then realised Zo was staring at him, eyes slightly teary, and all the anger went out of him in a rush. “You didn’t think I- What, you think I hung around you for my health? I’ve gotten into more fights whilst around you than I ever have on my own, and you know better than anyone that I have a smart mouth.” Zo sniffed, and Leo reached out and dragged his friend down into a hug, Zo having to hunch over in order to wrap his arms around Leo in turn.

“I just thought… Yanno, maybe I was convenient.” He mumbled, and Leo snorted with laughter.

“You are not, nor will you ever be, convenient, Zoroaster.” He said, hiding a smile in Zo’s dark curls. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“Back at you, da Vinci.” Zo sniffled, and straightened up to kiss Leo’s cheek, gently. “Thanks, Leo.”

“I said always, Zo, and I meant it.” Leo told him, smiling fondly, and Zo grinned back at him and offered him an apple.

 

***

 

“I’m looking for Leonardo da Vinci.” The boy in the doorway said, voice tremulous, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Leo glanced up from his sketching and Zo, perched on the edge of the table and munching on an apple whilst he explained what, exactly, Leo could do with his proposal to strap Zo into some kind of giant kite made of wood and fabric ( _again_ ), turned his head to give the boy a once over too.

“I’m sorry, I’m not currently looking to take an apprentice.” Leo said, absently, attention already back with his diagrams. Zo, though, was still watching the boy, and he saw the hunger in his eyes as he stared at Leo, the rapturous longing that he himself knew well.

“What’s your name, kid?” He asked, already suspecting the answer, and the boy blinked at Zo for a moment, seemingly noticing him for the first time, and then raised his chin, the defiance of a _legitimate_ first born son.

“My name is Niccolò Machiavelli.” He said, obviously expecting instant recognition – he was not to be disappointed. Leo’s head snapped back round and he stared, wide eyed, at the teenager still stood in his doorway, before turning back to Zo with a grin on his face.

“It’s _him_!” He hissed, delighted, and then pulled Zo down into a kiss. “It’s him!” He repeated, faltering when Zo didn’t seem nearly as enthused as he was. “Zo, what’s wrong? It’s _him_ , it’s Niccolò, we’ve been waiting for him for _literally_ years.”

“And he’s been waiting for you, mate.” Zo sighed, jerking his head towards the boy, who was looking between the two of them with a betrayed expression. “Look at his face, Leo. He doesn’t have a fuckin’ clue who I am.” He slid off the table and grabbed his jacket from where he’d thrown it, over the back of a chair. “I’m goin’ to the pub.” He muttered. “Leave you two to get to know each other.”

“Don’t you dare.” Leo said, firmly, dropping his sketches and darting across to grab ahold of Zo’s arm. “Don’t you dare walk out on us, Zoroaster, or I will turn that boy away and make us _all_ miserable.” He hissed, ignoring the pained sound from the teenager in the doorway.

“I can’t _do_ it, Leo! It was one bloody thing when the kid was just a Name on our skin but it is another bloody thing entirely to see him standin’ there and _know_ he doesn’t have my name either! I can’t bloody do it, Leo!” He crumpled, shoulders hunching in and face filling with helpless despair. “I can’t do it, don’t ask me to.”

“Good thing I’m not _asking_ , then.” Leo said, scowling. “I’m…” He faltered, gaze fixed on Zo’s, eyes pained. “I’m begging, Zo. I can’t do this without you. I can’t do _anything_ without you.” Zo sighed, raised a hand to stroke along Leo’s cheek.

“You’ll be happy together.” He reassured Leo, but the _artista_ just shook his head, frantically.

“I won’t.” He swore. “I’ll turn him away right now and not give a damn for the consequences, Zo.”

“You can’t turn away your soulmate.” Zo muttered, and Leo raised his chin.

“ _Exactly_.” He said, firm and fervent, and laid his palm above Zo’s heart. “But that’s exactly what you’re trying to do, Zo.”

“Leo, you don’t understand.” Zo all but begged, looping his fingers around Leo’s wrist, but not pushing the _artista_ away. “Being Unrequited once over was hard enough, doing it twice…”

“It’s not Unrequited!” Leo insisted. “I’ve told you, I don’t _care_ that your name isn’t on my skin, I _love_ you regardless.” He stared searchingly at Zo for a moment longer, then twisted his hand in Zo’s grip, lacing their fingers together over his own heart instead. “I said _always_ , Zo. Don’t doubt me now.” It was the right thing to say; Zo closed his eyes, visibly steeling himself, and swallowed.

“Alright.” He said. “Alright, Leo, alright. You win, I’ll stay.” His mouth quirked up then; as smiles went, it was a weak one, but Leo’s own was bright enough for both of them. “You’re explaining it to the kid though.” Zo added, and they both turned to look at the startled blond teenager still hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

 

***

 

The three of them were sprawled out across the bed, in various states of undress. Leo, propped up against the headboard with a sketchbook on his knees, was unabashedly nude; not an unusual occurrence. Zo, having been roped into going out to buy food, was nearly fully dressed, though his shirt was, as always, open nearly to his navel, proudly baring the two Names inked across his chest. Nico was somewhere between the two, in underwear and Leo’s shirt, rucked up just high enough for Zo’s thumb to be able to rub along the line of Leo’s name on the teenager’s hip.

“Not doubting us again, are you, Zoroaster?” Leo joked, though there was a hint of genuine worry in his tone as he paused in his sketching.

“Nah.” Zo said, smiling tightly as he fed Nico grapes. A slow frown spread across Nico’s face, and he reached out to touch his own name on Zo’s chest.

“It _must_ be a mistake.” He murmured, almost absently, and Zo shifted away from his touch, shoulders tense. Nico blinked, and then reached up to grab at Zo’s shirt, keeping him from moving any further away. “Not like _that_!” He protested. “I _mean_ , it’s ridiculous that you have _both_ our names, and Leo and I have each other’s, but neither of us has yours!”

“Sometimes that’s just the way it goes, Nico.” Zo said, gruffly, and Nico scowled, petulant.

“No it’s _not_.” He argued. “Some people have one Unrequited, yes, but not _two_ , and I have never once heard of an unrequited Name whose soulmate still loved them as we do you.”

“Well, Nico _is_ the one with the traditional education.” Leo teased, putting his sketchbook to the side and shifting to run his fingers through the teenager’s curls. “What are you thinking, Nico?”

“Well…” Nico hesitated, glancing between the two men who bore his Name. “Names appear when your soulmate first writes their name, yes? That’s why it’s always in their handwriting, because it’s supposed to be them writing their name across your soul?”

“That’s one theory.” Leo muttered, and Zo flashed him a glare to get him to shut up.

“What’re you tryin’ to say, Nico?” He asked, sighing. Nico fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, then huffed.

“Have you ever actually written your name, Zo?” He blurted, almost apologetically. Unlike Leo, he hated drawing attention to the fact that Zo could barely read and write. Zo’s expression turned a little petulant.

“Of course I’ve written my name before, look.” He reached over and snatched up Leo’s sketchbook, along with the stick of charcoal, and painstakingly printed _‘Zoroaster de Peretola’_ across a spare page. “See?” He held up the paper as proof, and then shrugged his broad shoulders in forced casualness. “It’s fine, I’ve accepted that you two are each other’s Names and I’m just along for the ride.”

“But that’s not it.” Leo said, abruptly, and Nico nodded, expression determined.

“No, of course not Zo, we love you-” He began, until Leo clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth to silence him, staring at the piece of paper with Zo’s name scrawled across it.

“No, I mean that’s not _it_. That’s not your name.” He repeated, gaze darting up to lock on Zo’s. “You had another name before Zoroaster, you told me.”

“Yeah, I… Tommaso. Tommaso Masini.” Zo muttered, swallowing back memories of his mother. “I changed it after uh. After me mum died.” He added, for Nico’s benefit; the boy instantly looked distraught on Zo’s behalf, and tried to sit up and embrace him, but Leo, still frowning, held him in place with the hand still covering the boy’s mouth.

“Write it.” He said, firmly, reaching out with his free hand and turning the page in the sketchbook. Zo just stared at him, a hint of something like fear in his eyes. “Write it, Zo.” Leo repeated, gently, curling his fingers around Zo’s fist, clenched around the stick of charcoal so hard it threatened to snap.

“I’ve written me name before.” Zo insisted, and Leo raised an eyebrow.

“Have you? You’re certain?”

“Yeah I… I must’ve done.” Zo didn’t seem convinced, his eyes straying to Leo’s bared forearms, the curl of Nico’s name printed stark against his skin.

“Write it, Zo.” Nico piped up, tugging Leo’s hand off his mouth and sitting up. He leant back against Leo’s chest, the _artista_ wrapping his arm around the boy’s waist almost instinctively, and Nico rested his hand atop Leo’s, still clutching Zo’s.

“What if…” Zo began, in a hoarse whisper. Leo shook his head.

“You’re our Name.” He said, firmly. “Our soulmate. Whether it works or not, it doesn’t change that.” Nico nodded in agreement.

“ _Maestro_ ’s right, Zo. We love you. Ink on skin is irrelevant in comparison to that.”

“Besides, even if it doesn’t work, you have both of our names etched above your _heart_ , Zo. How on Earth could we not love you, knowing that?” Leo said, and Zo stared at him helplessly, eyes suspiciously shiny. “I said always, Zo. I meant it then, and I mean it now.” Leo’s voice was no louder than a murmur, but Zo heard him, and Leo knew that Zo remembered from the way his breath hitched in what could be called a sob, if one were brave enough to suggest that this admittedly soft-hearted giant of a man might actually cry. Leo leant in, Nico shifting to the side, and kissed his oldest friend, chaste and tender. “Have I broken you?” He whispered, and Zo smiled through his tears.

“Quit it, you’ll have me bawlin’ like a fuckin’ baby.” Zo sniffled, and shook off their hands before he could talk himself out of it, turning and reaching over to grab a chair, dragging it over to the bed. He set the sketchbook down on it, and stared at it intently. The blank page stared back up at him. “You’re gonna have to help me spell it.” He muttered, quietly, and Leo leant against his back, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“T-O-M-M-A-S-O,” He began, and Nico tugged his shirt up so he could peer at his own hip, tracing the line of Leo’s name with one finger and searching for any hint that Zo’s would soon be joining it. “M-A-S-I-N-I.” Zo took a deep breath, and glanced up from the paper, only to see Leo staring sadly at his own wrists, no sign of Zo’s painstaking lettering having appeared there. They both turned to Nico, who just frowned in determination.

“Write it in Hebrew.” He suggested, firmly, shrugging when they both fixed him with doubtful expressions instead of complying. “Hebrew has a different alphabet, yes? My great-grandfather was from Tver, so my great-grandmother’s Name was in his alphabet, instead of ours.”

“Of course.” Leo murmured. “It’s always in your Name’s native tongue, and you learnt Hebrew before you learnt Italian.”

“Written Hebrew, sure, but I was speaking Italian first.”

“Just try it, Zo, we’ve come this far.” Leo insisted, and Zo sighed and looked down at the paper, frowning as he attempted to remember the rabbi’s long-ago lessons. He wrote, carefully, murmuring the names of each letter to himself as he did so, so focused that he didn’t notice Leo and Nico glance at each other, eyes wide with delight despite the sharp pain each could feel, on the side opposite to the Name they already bore. Nico tugged his shirt up again, watched the foreign letters etch themselves on his skin, a slow and steady backwards march. Leo, meanwhile, stretched out his left arm, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched the lines ink themselves from his wrist upwards. The pain was far worse than he remembered from when he’d gotten Nico’s name, but at the same time, it was a good kind of burn, like the ache of worn muscles after some rigorous athletic activity.

“There.” Zo finished, with a sigh. “I think that’s spelt right.”

“It better be, since I’m pretty sure it’s permanent now.” Leo joked, and Zo spun to stare at him, wide eyed and hopeful and yet not quite daring to accept it until Leo held up his left arm, laughing at the wonderstruck expression on Zo’s face.

“Me too!” Nico piped up, turning slightly to display the letters on his hip, already looking like they’d always been there. Zo settled his hand over his own name, expression still slightly awed, and Nico grinned at him and leant up for a kiss. “I told you it was a mistake.” Nico teased, whilst Leo took his own turn at kissing Zo.

“Now will you believe that I mean it when I say _always_?” Leo murmured, stroking Zo’s face, their foreheads resting against each other and Zo’s fingers curled around Leo’s wrist, fingertips brushing the dark lines of his name.

“Yeah.” Zo said, hoarsely. “Reckon I can do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, Beggars had a friend who taught her some very, very basic Hebrew. Like, ridiculously basic Hebrew. Like, how to write her name. Beggars has forgotten every single thing her friend told her.
> 
> Basically Beggars is saying she knows nothing about Hebrew except distant and unhelpful facts related to her uni course.
> 
> She also doesn't know if Rabbis would fulfil the same role as Christian priests in that time r.e. being the only ones (outside of the upper classes) who could read and write and thus being the ones to teach others but that's what she was going for.
> 
> Why is she talking about herself in the third person.


End file.
